


Rifle Wedding

by Bur



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F, Future Fic, Shotgun Wedding, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bur/pseuds/Bur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ymir gets cold feet at her wedding.  Christa was perfectly prepared for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rifle Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SnK Kink Meme prompt, "Christa and Ymir finally go through with their wedding. Only problem. Ymir gets cold feet and tries to make a panicked break for it. Christa is not amused. Ymir is therefore escorted up the aisle by a person who is pointing a shotgun at her back the whole time. Christa of course behaves as if there is nothing wrong or unusual whatsoever."

This was the best day of Jean’s life.  

Okay, maybe he was exaggerating, but not by much.  It wasn’t every day he got to watch Ymir completely flip her shit, and he had the best seat in the house.  The only way it could’ve been better was if he was in Connie’s position.

He heard a sharp clack as Connie pumped his rifle.  “Walk, ugly.”

A high keening escaped from Ymir’s throat and her eyes rolled back like a panicked horse as a string quartet started to play.  “No-no-no-nononononono-”  She moved forward by inches through the doorway as Connie pressed the rifle’s muzzle into her back.

Jean got the privilege of walking her down the aisle, though he still didn’t understand the reason why.  He’d decided to just accept it for the boon it was.  Gift horses and all that. Instead of Ymir slipping her hand through his arm like a normal person at a normal wedding he had her arm in death grip to keep her from bolting.  After all, if she ran away Connie would have to shoot her and then the dress would be ruined.

Christa - he _still_ had a hard time thinking of her as Historia - really liked that dress, and it’d suck to upset her, but if Ymir got away from him it’d be a lie to say he’d mind any of the bloodshed that would follow.  It’d serve her right for all the bullshit she’d put them through.

Nonetheless, far as revenges went this was pretty sweet.

***

Bertholdt and Reiner had been allowed out of their underground prison to attend the wedding, sitting on the bride’s side.  By the time the ceremony was over, though, there would only be one of them to take back down, because Bertholdt was going to kill Reiner.

“I thought you were over her,” he said moodily and wished the chains that bound his arms were slack enough for him to cross them.  He felt exposed for all that they were in the back row.

“But- but she looks like a _goddess_!” insisted Reiner.

Bert dug a handkerchief out of the pocket of the dress pants he’d been given to wear and passed it to him.  He got a warning knock to the head from the guard standing behind them for his efforts.

“No sudden movements,” she hissed.

Bert didn’t see what had been so sudden about it, but he apologized under his breath anyways.

He also didn’t see what was so “goddess”-like about Christa.  She looked nice enough.  A suit had been tailored to fit her small frame, the dark cloth of it contrasting well with her pale coloring, and her hair had been pulled back into a simple knot.  It wasn’t anything special, but there was Reiner next to him with his face blotchy and his eyes all red and being a bigger embarrassment than before he’d started therapy sessions with Hanji.

Bert wondered if maybe he was biased.

A fuss drew his attention to the center aisle.

“I can’t!  N-no, no no youdon’tunderstand I can’t I can’t I ca-”

“Get a load of that.”  Reiner’s voice was scratchy, but thick with amusement.

Get a load of that _indeed_.  Ymir was the last person he’d expected to get frightened at her own wedding.  Him, sure.  He’d probably leave a puddle of sweat wherever someone decided to stand him, but Ymir?  He’d half expected her to run down the aisle to Christa as fast as her legs would take her.

Obviously that was not going to happen.  She was only moving forward through the combined efforts of Connie and Jean, both wearing what Reiner would call “shit-eating grins”.  Connie had a rifle pressed firmly against the small of her back, just below where Ymir’s white dress’s scandalously low back ended.  Jean, from what Bert could see given that Ymir blocked most of his view of him, looked like had a painful looking grip on her upper arm and was pulling her forward with all the force he could muster.

Meanwhile, Christa stood calmly at the altar with a small smile on her face as if she’d expected this to happen, as if all of this were going according to plan.

Bertholdt had no idea why everyone thought Christa was a goddess.  The woman was clearly a demon.

***

Ymir didn’t know why she’d ever agreed to this.  It’d seemed like such a good idea at the time, but, then, after sex _everything_ Historia said seemed like a good idea.  She was the worst, a terrible manipulative woman willing to use all of Ymir’s weaknesses against her, and it was the worst because she _wanted_ Historia to use her like that, to need her, to drop all that nice-girl martyr shit around her.  That was love, right?

Now, though, she felt trapped.  The dress that Historia had picked out for her felt constrictive around her ribs and she itched to rip it off, and these damn shoes too with their stupid pointy heels, and throw the flowers at Jean’s smug face. 

No, she’d _punch_ Jean’s smug face, and he better not think she didn’t know he was enjoying this.  Fucking prick.

The flowers she’d shove up Connie’s ass since he was so intent on trying to shove that gun of his up hers.

Sh-she’d show them all just as soon as-

A sob hiccuped violently out of her, leaving her gasping for breath and her eyes itching.

J-just as soon as-

***

The procession, such as it was, ground to a halt halfway down as Ymir fell to her knees and started crying loudly.

“I hate you, Historia you bitch!” she wailed, and hid her face in her bouquet.

Jean and Connie gave each other identical stunned looks and inched away from the woman.  Just in case.  After all, Connie’s gun would be pretty useless if Ymir decided to turn titan in her distress.

All the same, this was turning out to be best wedding Mikasa had ever attended.  It wasn’t what she’d want for herself, or for Eren (Or for her _and_ Eren, said the stubborn, eternally hopeful voice next to her heart.), but it would definitely go down as a memorable occasion.

“Should we try and help her out?” asked Eren hesitantly.

“No way,” Armin answered while shaking his head. “There are some battles not worth entering, and this is one of them.”

“Oh,” said Eren. “Good.”

Ymir continued to cry in her flowers. Jean, looking far less happy than when he’d started, took a step towards her only for Ymir to throw one of her shoes at him.

“You’re just being an ass because Mikasa will never want to marry you and Marco’s dead!” she screamed, and then sucked in a breath and grew silent as she realized she’d gone too far.

Every muscle in Jean’s body turned rigid, and when he turned towards the front to look at Christa Mikasa was surprised at how pale his face had gone. “Sorry, Christa,” he said in a flat voice, “you’re gonna have to finish this without me.”

Christa, for her part, looked shocked. One hand had frozen halfway to her face and her mouth hung slightly open. She got hold of herself quickly enough, though. “No, I understand. Thank you, Jean.”

“Yeah, well,” Jean said as he pushed past Connie and walked towards the chapel’s doors, “that open bar talk better be for real.”

Maybe this was getting too memorable. 

Mikasa stood, smoothed down the front of her skirt, and slid out of their bench (groom’s side, third row). She ignored the hissed calls from Eren and Armin to come back. 

It was time to bring this to an end.

Mikasa strode over to Ymir. “Don’t try and fight it,” she warned as she knelt down beside the other woman. With surprisingly little fuss she had Ymir balanced over her shoulder, and in less than a quarter of the time it had taken for Ymir to make it halfway down the aisle Mikasa got her to the altar and dumped her on the floor. The string quartet, who had long ago had to move on to another song, drew to an awkward close.

“Your bride,” she announced, and went quietly back to her seat.

***

Histora looked down at her disheveled, snot-and-tear-stained bride and felt nothing but warm affection. “You can never do things the easy way, can you.”

Ymir blushed and avoided her eyes. “Sorry,” she muttered, and wiped her nose with a gloved hand. She stood slowly and wavered a bit, probably put off balance by her missing shoe. “I’m going to be a terrible wife. Why are you marrying me again?”

“So you’ll be _my_ terrible wife.” Historia pushed herself up on her toes and brushed Ymir’s hair away from her face where it’d gotten stuck to skin from sweat and tears.

Ymir smiled, a real smile, and her bloodshot eyes narrowed with it. “You’re too damn cute when you’re making mistakes.”

The pastor, who had been admirably stoic throughout all the events that had transpired, cleared his throat. “If we can move on?”

“Right, yes,” Historia said, stepping back to take her place. “Please start, Pastor Ralph.”

***

This had turned into the worst day of Jean’s life.

Okay, maybe he was exaggerating. By, like, a _lot_. But, somehow, Ymir had left him feeling so raw that he felt like it really could be. It was stupid. He’d gotten over Mikasa years ago. It’d taken longer to move on past Marco, but it’d _still_ been a while. It wasn’t like these were fresh wounds. He wasn’t a teenager anymore.

“Maybe I just need to get laid,” he said to himself as he watched Ymir and Christa start to take their vows from the chapel doors. That had also been years, not that he’d ever admit it to another soul. It was kind of embarrassing.

Jean heard a loud, honking sound. He turned his head to investigate and saw it was Reiner blowing his nose while Bertholdt looked like he was trying to sink as low into the seat as he could. Their guard was twiddling her thumbs behind her back and had the air of someone who was desperately wishing she was somewhere else.

Christa must really have some mad connections to have busted the two of them out for Ymir.

A soft clatter brought his attention back to the front. Ymir had kicked her remaining shoe off the altar and it was still spinning in the aisle.

A smile tugged at the corners of Jean’s lips. He was glad for them. He hoped they had a long time to be together. And, yeah, he could admit he was jealous too, and maybe that’s why Ymir’s stupid comment had bothered him so much, but it was just so much more important that his friends got to be happy.

When they kissed Christa tried to dip Ymir. Jean didn’t know how Christa had expected that to work, because it didn’t. It didn’t _spectacularly_ and now the two of them where in a pile on the floor laughing hysterically while the long-suffering pastor looked to the murals of the walls for strength.

It was the best day of Jean’s life again, with just a little bit of exaggeration, but damned if he wasn’t still going to take advantage of Christa’s open bar.

It’s what friends were for, right?


End file.
